Scissorhands
by silver-footsteps
Summary: She's all sharp words and clumsiness. But to me, each biting phrase, each verbal lashing is another way for her to hide behind all her pretenses of cruelty. Prize for wingedmercury. Itasaku


I know this probably isn't what she expected, but this oneshot sort of got out of hand. This is my prize for wingedmercury who figured out that Sakura in Nightshade has... well... something. Anyway, she requested a scenario where Itachi tries to take Sakura out on a date and fails horribly but it sort of warped to also show the origins of their intimate relationship in Nightshade. The rest of the fic will make sense without this bit but I felt like Itachi deserved a chance to express whatever's going on inside that pretty head of his. Can you tell that this is my OTP?

**Takes place 2 years after _Black Widow and the Sandman_.**

Enjoy! And many thanks to wingedmercury for an amazing prompt.

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Scissorhands

She's all sharp words and clumsiness.

Anyone else looking at Haruno Sakura could describe her with so many different words: fearless, intelligent, calculating. But to me, each biting phrase, each verbal lashing is another way for her to hide behind all her pretenses of cruelty. The years have been cruel to her at best. With each passing whirl of this vast, rotting planet, I've watched her change and warp in all the wrong ways until she's become this impossibly beautiful being with the frailest, most tender insides I've ever seen.

When I tell her this, she simply shakes her head and calls me a liar, tells me that there's no way that someone like her could be hurt.

She always smiles at me like someone is slowly peeling her skin off.

It's her 20th birthday. There are hundreds of people gathered downstairs dressed in all their finery and guzzling down the special champagne that her brother has had imported all the way from France. And she's lying on her side on the floor of the bedroom with her shoes flung carelessly on the bed.

"Sakura," I call, entering her bedroom without knocking.

"Make them go away," she flatly orders. There's a glass of clear amber liquid next to her head. Lipstick stains the rim but the drink inside remains untouched.

"Some of them are very important guests," I half-heartedly remind her. But she doesn't respond, doesn't act like she's even heard me. And Sasori, who has been lingering in the doorway, hears her order and slips away to do her bidding. He's always been that way, unquestioningly following through with her most selfish and unreasonable whims. Sasori would watch the entire world go up in flames as long as that's what she wants.

It's barely 9 pm when Sasori manages to scare the last few guests out the door. I can hear Pein grumbling about how much damage control he'll have to do the next day. He's been chaffing against her orders ever since she started noticing what a valuable asset Ame was. I shoot him a glance out of the corner of my eyes and he sneers at me. But I'm not in the mood to deal with Pein's insane god-complex, nor am I in the mood to deal with Konan's sycophantic obedience.

Instead, I go back up to the second floor.

She's sitting on the windowsill; her glass is drained and toppled over on the plush white carpet. Her head's turned as she watches the final chauffeur drive off with highly disgruntled passengers. I know she hears my footsteps but I wait for her to speak.

"Itachi."

When did she stop calling me her older brother?

"Itachi, they make me sick to my stomach. I hate people," she sighs finally tilting her head to look at me. Her mouth curls into the faintest imitation of a smile. That's all she's given me lately. It's like she's forgotten how to smile.

"You're not like that. Right, Itachi?" she whispers in a tone that makes my gut twist into sick knots of hope.

"Let's go for a drive," I reply to her. And for the first time in months, her eyes light up.

"Okay," Sakura says with something resembling a smile and she reaches her hand out to me. I take it and her fingers are blisteringly cold.

She climbs into my car without asking where we're going. As we speed down the highway, she lowers her window and rests her chin on her palm, letting the cool wind whip through her short hair. She's changed out of her tight-fitting dress and into a light yellow sundress and sandals. If it weren't for the dark tattoo gracing her breast, she would look like any other woman, lovely and innocent. But I know that can't be true because she glances at me with sad, blank eyes that don't belong on someone as beautiful as her.

We stop at a small restaurant overlooking the sea. With her soft, steely eyes, she looks at me, silently wondering, but never suspicious.

"You haven't eaten all day," I remind her and she purses her lips like she's about to protest. But I can see her swallow back her words and she settles back in her seat, waiting for me to open the door for her. And with that dignified, noble air that I've come to expect from her, she unflinchingly accepts my arm when I offer it to her and walk her up the glass stairs of the restaurant. The staff quickly recognizes me and seats us at the lone table on the terrace, purposely lighting extra candles and burning incense that fills the night air with its sweet, heady perfume.

"This is a nice ambience," she observes without any inflection in her tone. But her jade eyes are staring directly at me and I don't know what to say to her. So I let her weighted statement pass by and instead pick up a menu.

Expensive white wine, the kind she likes.

Tender salmon, crisp cucumber salad and flaming cherries soaked in sherry.

All the while, her fork and knife scrape against her plate and her mouth moves while she chews. She dabs delicately at her lips with her napkin and for a moment, her luminous eyes flicker up to look at me under thick, dark lashes. And although a faint smile tugs at her lips, she speaks in soft, clipped statements that don't give away much.

I've never been much of a conversationalist either. And anything I have to say to her, she anticipates half-way through my statements and she answers me with more of her quiet, short responses.

On her second helping of wine, she holds the glass up to the candlelight and examines the glittering crystal. Her unpainted lips pull into a frown.

"Is everything alright?" I ask her and she blinks, like she's forgotten I'm there with her altogether. Slowly, she nods, even though her eyes are far away beyond my reach. A low sigh escapes her mouth as she tosses her napkin on the table, covering the salmon that's been prodded and broken apart but barely eaten. I feel an absurd surge of pity for the forlorn fish.

"I'm tired. Take me home," Sakura orders. The waiter who has been hovering near our table takes a step forward at these words.

"You've barely touched your food," I point out and the waiter takes a step back. Sakura sees this and her eyes narrow, focusing in on the flustered young man. As if she's spoken to him, the waiter silently picks up her plate and whisks it away.

"I'm not very hungry," she replies with a sniff. I look down at my half-empty plate, swallowing down my latest bite of tender salmon. I see the chef waiting just inside the restaurant with a tray waiting beside him. He's holding on to a bottle of expensive sherry with an expectant smile. Our eyes meet and I shake my head. The man wilts before he retreats back into the kitchen.

"Take me home," Sakura says again and I really have no choice but to obey. I lay a large bill on the table, larger than what I need to pay for dinner. I reach out to offer her my arm again but she walks straight past me. She might as well have walked through me. I follow after her as she takes brisk steps out of the restaurant, her thin shoulder hunching against the cold. I half-run to catch up with her as I twist out of my jacket and throw it over her shoulders. But with a quick jerk, she shrugs it off and tosses it to the damp pavement.

"Sakura, what's wrong?" I demand as I scoop up my jacket and hurry after her. She tosses her head and doesn't speak as she climbs into the car and waits. I know there's little point in arguing with her in the parking lot, so I obediently get into the driver's seat and drive back on the darkened highway, listening to the wind whistle through the opened window. She keeps her gaze glued firmly to the inky night, refusing to look in my direction even once. I pull up in front of the tall Victorian mansion, waiting for her to speak. But Sakura simply takes a deep breath through her nose and reaches to open the door.

When I take her arm, she comes to a sudden stop. Her loose hair whips around angrily as she turns her head to look at me. Fire flickers faintly in her gaze as she stares me down.

"Don't touch me," she quietly says in a tone laced with venom.

"Sakura." I say her name because I don't quite know what else to say. Her lips pull back, revealing white, even teeth that glint sinisterly in the dark.

"No," she hisses. But behind the fierce expression, I see a flicker of something in her eyes that I've long grown used to.

She's trying not to cry.

It's impossible to tell. Usually, she's so good at locking things away, letting them fester and warp into ugly, twisted delusions that eat her from the inside. But I've known her for too long not to see, not to notice.

"Itachi, let me go," she flatly demands as she looks away from me. Her fingers curl momentarily before she pushes me away and silently storms up the stairs and into the house. I trail after her, shooting warning glances to the maids and butler waiting nervously in the foyer. They quickly scatter, pretending to be suddenly occupied with examining non-existent specks of dust and invisible wrinkles in the drapes. Unsurprisingly, Sakura climbs the wooden stairs and strides down the skinny hallway to her bedroom. She yanks the door open and roughly pulls her earrings out, throwing them onto her dresser. I watch her take two steps towards the bathroom before I grab hold of her arms and pull her to me, tightly hugging her against my chest. Her girlish gasp is foreign to me, so uncharacteristic of her that it makes my blood boil. She remains limp in my arms, refusing to make any move. But that doesn't matter.

"Don't touch me," she almost whispers.

"Sakura, don't say something like that to me. You have no idea how much I want to touch you every day," I whisper against her ear and I feel her go rigid in my arms. I hold her tight, waiting for a barrage of verbal abuse or at least for her to break free with anger raging in her tight gaze. But she's very quiet, unmoving in my arms until I feel the tiniest shudder.

"Liar," she sighs and her voice cracks.

"Liar," she whispers again and I feel the warm drops of her tears drip against the side of my neck. A broken sigh escapes her and she lifts her hands to cover her mouth. Her cheek grows warm against my chest and I know that she's ashamed.

"Let me go," Sakura orders again in a much weaker tone.

"Never," I reply to her and the noise that leaves her mouth is neither a laugh nor a sob.

Eventually, she pulls away from me, eyes averted. But her expression is no longer tight and controlled. She rests her hand on my shoulder as she plucks her sandals off her feet and tosses her sandals near her armoire, leaving them for the maids to clean up at a later time.

"Can… you get my zipper for me?"

It's a question she's asked many times before. And usually, I oblige it without protest, ignoring the strong urges to run my hands down the smooth expanse of her back that's unwrapped for me as the teeth of the zipper separate. Like always, she thanks me with a nod and moves to grab the robe draped over the edge of her bed. But for an instant, she glances at me over her shoulder, a curious almost playful gaze.

"Sakura." Her name escapes my mouth like white puffs of breath on a winter day. I pull her back, wrapping arms around her waist. Her cool back presses against my front and she's so small and soft and fragile that I wonder if I might break her.

"I'm not lying," I correct her before I lower my head and kiss the exposed skin of her delicate shoulder. A shaky breath leaves her mouth. She twists around and I lower my arms, half-expecting her to push me away. But she surprises me by letting out a weary sigh and reaching up to press a hand on either side of my face.

"You don't. You don't want someone as ugly as me," she whispers with a frail smile. Her fingers caress my cheeks as she lets her hands fall. I catch her hands, gripping them tightly enough that it almost hurt.

"You're beautiful," I assure her in the same quiet voice.

A furrow appears in her forehead as she stares up into my face for a long time. And then, she pulls gently, coaxing me to lower my head until our noses are touching. Her sea foam eyes are flecked with silver and I can see the hint of a freckle under dark eyelashes.

"Say that again."

"You're beautiful."

"Okay," she says with an unreadable expression. But I read her eyes and I know what she's agreeing to even if she doesn't completely understand herself. Taking a deep breath, I move the last inch and press my lips against hers. She's surprisingly shy, following my lead and linking her hands around the back of my neck. A little whine of displeasure sneaks out of her when my mouth leaves hers and I can't stop my smirk as I kiss her jaw once.

Her soft words mingle with quickened breaths. She whispers my name and it's almost enough to make me think this is all some twisted dream. But her soft hair is spilling over my face and her body is pressed up against mine. The places where our bodies touch are scorching, burning and blazing with all the heat of the sun. Her fingers twist into my hair.

Two broken groans are strung together.

She shudders in my lap, grip tensing almost painfully on my shoulders. She lingers, hands tenderly smoothing over my face and pulling my hair out of my eyes and that's almost more pleasurable than the release itself. For a few moments, she smiles, an innocent, whole expression that makes my entire chest throb painfully.

"Thank you," she murmurs as she leans forward and gives me a chaste kiss. Then she lifts off of my lap, pulling her robe around her bare body. I catch her wrist as she goes to brush her soft hair out of her vibrant green eyes.

"I wasn't lying," I remind her and her smile fades and I'm almost sorry for it. But she still lets me pull her back to bed where we lay tangled together until morning with my head tucked up against her stomach. Her fingers idly comb through my hair and my fingers trace over the back of her calf. Occasionally, someone speaks and the other replies before we lapse back into silence. At some point during the night, I fall asleep. She tells me that even in slumber, I lie close to her, fingers loosely locking with hers. Around sunrise, I wake to her standing at the window with her arms crossed over her chest. She listens to the faint rustle of fabric and she looks over her shoulder at me with a faint smile.

"You know, I don't like fish, Itachi," she quietly says and I can't say anything.

"But thank you," she adds in a near-whisper as she turns back to the window. I can see her reflection in the gleaming glass pane.

I don't know whether she's laughing or crying.

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Reviews are always appreciated! Thanks for reading!


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